


pillow your head on my heart (an expedition in sleeping arrangements)

by spiekiel



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Cuddles, Fluff, I have no excuses, M/M, Pack Bonding, Pack Dynamics, Pack in College, Spring Break, bed sharing, really all this is is fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-12 01:40:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2091063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiekiel/pseuds/spiekiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are two kings, a queen pullout, plus two twins downstairs, which should fit eight people comfortably enough, but somehow -</p><p>Stiles wakes up with a faceful of Derek's hair and strong arms around his torso, crammed into one of the twins, seriously hungover and feeling like he would very much like to never venture forth from the safety of the warm duvet -</p>
            </blockquote>





	pillow your head on my heart (an expedition in sleeping arrangements)

"Huh," Stiles drops his duffle bag inside the door, "I honestly thought Jackson was richer than this."

  


Lydia comes up the last of the stairs from the driveway behind him, her flip-flops slapping on the landing, and whaps him in the shoulder."Lay off, he just started generating his own income like two months ago.It's better than I see you doing."

  


"Plus," says Allison, pushing past both of them with just a backpack slung over one shoulder, because apparently she can pack lighter than a whole squad of college-age guys, "it's the Keys, so isn't it like, ten times more expensive than most of the country?"

  


Stiles cruises through the sitting room into the adjoining kitchen and pulls open the fridge, only to find it empty of everything but a carton of orange juice and a plate of cheese and crackers, both probably left over from the realtor."Maybe he sent us to his backup house.Like the little house he uses for his pack, that he doesn't tell any of his high-class business peeps about."  

  


He pulls the plate of cheese out, because it's _cheese,_ right, doesn't go bad, and even if it does you eat it anyways, and even sell it for more money.The sun's already gone down outside, but no one's going to be too eager to get to bed yet, when they've all just reconvened - flying in from five different colleges in three different states to converge on this one house in the Florida Keys - even though Lydia seems the type to have a vacation itinerary stashed somewhere in her three bags.

  


"It comes with a boat, Stiles, cut it some slack," Allison smiles."Even if it is a little shabby."

  


Scott comes huffing up the stairs into the apartment, buried under what looks like the remainder of the pack's bags.He dumps them inside the door, where people will have to clamber over them to get in, because Scott thinks ahead like that."Jackson just called Derek," he says."Looks like he's not going to make it, but he says there are two more beds in the boathouse downstairs, and the key should be up here in the fruit bowl."

  


Stiles quits the cheese plate long enough to dig it out from under the wax apples and toss it across the room to Scott, who snatches it deftly out of the air.  

  


"Guys," Isaac's voice precedes him through the open doorway, even though he shows up a second later in a terrible Hawaiian shirt that Scott got him to wear and a pair of Birks, "there's a dunebuggy downstairs."

  


"Seriously?" Stiles asks.

  


"Seriously," Erica says.  

  


She sautners up the stairs behind him, Boyd attached at her hip, and weaves around him through the door to fold down immediately onto the leather couch, in Boyd's lap.They both look tired, which they should, having flown up from their first week of break in Caracas, of all places - Erica's got smudged glittery makeup under her eyes and two hair wraps still in, Boyd has a goddamn _toe ring_ , and a bit of ink on his face that looks like he almost got a facial tattoo, but backed out in time.

  


Stiles drops down next to them, and Allison setlles into his other side, her fingers light on his arm.Isaac squishes into the nonexistent spot between her and the arm of the couch, kicking his feet up on the coffee table.Stiles feels his eyes start to drag closed, because even though it's three hours earlier, LAX to MIA is a _long_ fucking flight.

  


"We're driving that in the morning," he says."And the boat.Flip a coin which one is first.Boat, I say.We can go fishing.Catch dinner.Who knows how to cook fish? Do werewolves even eat seafood?"

  


No one's really paying attention to him.He hears Lydia ask, "Where'sDerek?"

  


Erica snorts."Maybe he fell in the canal."

  


And if Derek has already gotten himself in some deep yogurt when they've not even been here five minutes, Stiles is going to blow some sort of gasket or something, because this is his _vacation_ , he doesn't want to be saving Derek's tall, dark, grumpy werewolf ass, even if the idea of Derek clambering wet out of the canal, in the glow from the porch light, breathing hard - 

  


"He went to get booze," someone answers.Stiles hears to door latch shut."Apparently airport security confiscated his wolfsbane, too, so he has to go find that."

  


Stiles snorts, and lists sideways a little onto someone's shoulder.

  


* * *

  


Derek turns up around one a.m. with a brown bag full of various and sundry alcohol, a UConn sweatshirt that was left in one of the cars and either belongs to Scott or Allison, and a riveting monosyllabic account of his journey across the seven mile bridge to find a wannabe shaman who stocks wolfsbane.  

  


Lydia digs up an armful of shot glasses, since she's the one who wrote up the organisation plan that Jackson has been conditioned into implementing, Allison pops the vodka, grinning a little wildly and revved up to drink them all under the table, and they all get well and rip-roaring drunk.

  


Somewhere along the line, there's an Eddie Murphy movie from the nineties on the TV, and a giggling game of Trivial Pursuit that no one was getting anywhere in turns into _let's talk about that time Stiles ditched class to climb a tree, like a dumbass,_ which turns into a game of never have I ever, because they're all mature third year college students, yeah.  

  


Stiles grins what he hopes is a wolfish grin, but probably just looks watery, across the shot-glass piled coffee table at Lydia, and says, "Never have I ever had a three-way with twins."

  


Lydia smiles minutely."I will own _proudly_ to that."She knocks back a shot, her cheeks rouging slightly.

  


Across the table, Boyd reaches for his own shot.Erica elbows him hard in the ribs, and hisses, "He said _three_ way, you idiot."Stiles squints a little, but he's not touching that with a ten foot pole.

  


Derek's watching the proceedings from an armchair, a bottle of beer in his hand and his feet resting on the ottoman in front of him, the one Isaac's about to pass out on.His eyes are half-closed, and he looks content, a special breed of content that Stiles gets completely - that feeling of the pack being back together like they ought to be, even if it's not in Beacon Hills, even if it's only for a week or so.  

  


Derek still has long pants on, but by the end of the week Stiles knows he'll succumb to the heat and put on a pair of shorts, and isn't that a novel idea - Derek, in _shorts._ Better yet, Derek in swim trunks.His hair wet, dripping, and Stiles would be more than happy to lick that rivulet running over the tendons of his neck - 

  


Scott elbows him hard enough that Stiles falls sideways into Isaac."Ow, geez, what?" Stiles rubs his arm, even though that was practically _gentle_ by werewolf standards.

  


"You definitely did that one."

  


"What one?"  

  


Erica smirks at him."Never have I ever woken up with my hair dyed a different color than when I went to sleep."

  


Stiles points a finger at her, "I haven't done that, actually - "

  


"Eyebrows count as hair."

  


Derek raises one of his own dark eyebrows at Stiles from his high-and-mighty perch on the armchair."Seriously, Stiles?"

  


Stiles ducks his head and does a shot."Green," he says, "they were green, as were most of my eyelashes, and I still have no clue how it happened, but it was St. Paddy's day, so.You know how it goes."

  


Derek chuckles, low and hearty, and Stiles could ease up onto that chair and curl around him and doze for days with that laugh alone to keep him, he could.Could curl his fingers into Derek's henley and bury his nose in the soft skin behind Derek's ear and inhale and just _breathe,_ in time with the rhythm of Derek's strong chest rising and falling under his hand.  

  


It's only a few minutes before Isaac keels over, defeated, onto the ottoman, most of his weight on Stiles' shoulder, and by then Stiles has done a few more shots and is drunk enough that he's seeing a pale glow to everything, which makes him worry that he grabbed a wolfsbane bottle by accident, despite Allison's skull-and-crossbones sharpie drawings on all of them - 

  


Lydia is trying to force-feed Scott a shot over the coffee table, insisting that he _did_ indeed try on a pair of her Louboutins once, Allison giggling.Erica and Boyd are curled into each other, one of her hair wraps twisted around his finger.Stiles feels his eyes start to droop closed, and he stops trying to fight it, drifts backwards, and he thinks he feels Derek's foot pushing against his spine.

  


* * *

  


Overnight, they play musical beds.  

  


There are two kings, a queen pullout, and two twins downstairs, which should fit eight people comfortably enough, but somehow -

  


Stiles wakes up with a faceful of Derek's hair and strong arms around his torso, crammed into one of the twins, seriously hungover and feeling like he would very much like to never venture forth from the safety of the warm duvet - 

  


* * *

  


The first time Stiles wakes up, he's still mostly drunk, and drooling all over the pillow that his face is smashed into.There's a hand trapped under one of his elbows, which is pointing a really weird and uncomfortable direction, and a pair of socked feet crammed up in the backs of his knees, which means Scott, probably, because Scott's the only person Stiles knows who wears socks with sandals like a doof.

  


His eyes blink lethargically, and against the pale moonlight coming in through the blinds, lining the room, he sees Allison, swimming in that UConn sweatshirt, clamber over the foot of the bed.  

  


She somehow uses her mad hunter powers to insinuate herself in the three inches of space between Stiles and Scott, shoving Stiles to the very ends of the bed in the process.One of his legs goes over the edge, his toes momentarily brushing the cold hardwood floors, and he says weakly, "Hey, what."

  


Allison reaches over without looking and smooshes his head back into the pillow, settling down into the warm spot left by his body, her head tucked under Scott's chin, and Scott - Scott has to go and _smile_ in his sleep, for chrissakes, they're ridiculous.  

  


Stiles lets himself fall the rest of the way out of bed, staggers out into the dark house, and - 

  


The next time he wakes up, Lydia's shoving him out of the king bed that Allison vacated, because apparently Lydia is capable of and happy to take a whole king to herself, while Stiles sleeps on the floor.  

  


He sways unsteadily to his feet, and fixes her with his best four a.m. glare, even though she's still feigning sleep."I really feel the love.The hospitality.It's overwhelming."

  


Lydia waves a hand at him from under the duvet, completely unconcerned by his plight."You're not hot enough for me to step out on Jackson.Girls only."

  


Stiles makes an exasperated sound and spins on his heel, diverts dangerously, and manages to target his way through the bedroom door.The house is quiet, just the soft sounds of Boyd and Erica breathing, asleep on the pullout couch, to fill the common area.They're spooning, Erica backed up to Boyd's chest, in just a sports bra and a pair of shorts that can hardly be classified as such, the sheet twisted around their ankles.

  


He kneels on the edge of the mattress and shakes Erica's shoulder, even though she probably should have heard him banging about the room like a baby elephant with her werewolf super-senses.  

  


She cracks an eye and looks up at him, not amused with having been woken at whatever ungodly time."Go back to sleep, Stiles, it can wait till morning."

  


"Allison invaded my bed, and Lydia kicked me out of Allison's spot, because turns outher bed is a girls-only treehouse - "

  


Erica rolls over and buries her face in Boyd's sheer cliff face of a chest.  

  


"Come on, Erica, go sleep with Lydia," Stiles pokes her in the back."Please.Switch with me."He pokes her again."Switch with me."

  


Erica pulls back far enough to share a look with Boyd, which seems to say, "He's not going to leave until we either kill him or do what he says."She sighs, then rolls out of bed like an acrobat, landing on her feet, and walks with a hip-shimmy over into Lydia's room. 

  


Boyd gives Stiles one, long look that illustrates all the ways he is not happy with the current situation, and retreats to his side of the bed.Stiles recovers the abused sheet and is asleep on Erica's unused pillow in about three seconds flat.  

  


That lasts about five minutes.Stiles flails awake as Erica is dragging him out of bed by the collar of his tee shirt, unconcerned by the yelp-like noise that comes out of his mouth, "What the hell?"

  


Erica settles back onto the pullout, Boyd's arms already pulling her back into place."Lydia says I'm too hot," she says."Whatever that means."

  


Stiles looks at his options - there are a couple of lawn chairs downstairs on the porch, but he saw an iguana earlier and he doesn't really want to wake up with one of those nasty suckers crawling up his leg.There's Scott and Allison, who wouldn't kick him out, but would probably land him in a really uncomfortable situation come morning, and there's the settee at the end of Lydia's bed.

  


He goes for the front door in search of Isaac, who everybody loves enough that he'll either be able to wiggle his way into the pullout or into Scott and Allison's bed.  

  


* * *

  


Stiles wakes once more before morning, in the early hours of the dawn, when the light outside is just starting to warm from moonlight into sunlight.There's a heavy weight blanketed over his front, a steady inhale and exhale of air against the back of his neck, and Derek's nosing gently at the junction of his shoulder.

  


There's not really enough space for both of them, they overlap by necessity, but something in deep in Stiles just feels _right_.He skims his hand up Derek's bare back, turns his head to press a sleepy kiss into the crown of Derek's head, feeling Derek settle into him, the water in the canal lapping outside the boathouse window, and lets himself start to drift back off.  

  


"Derek," Stiles says.He doesn't know for certain that he's awake, but he feels like he probably is, is probably listening to every fractional move Stiles makes."You're the best alpha a guy could ask for, really."

  


Derek huffs out a laugh into the pillow behind Stiles' head, his lips pulling into a smile against Stiles' skin."Because I let you sleep in my bed?"  

  


"Well, that," Stiles is looking at the ceiling, but he'd like nothing more than to be able to look at Derek's eyes, right now."Also, you - um."

  


Derek raises himself up on one elbow, looking down at Stiles from under a dark wash of lashes, which makes everything easier, makes Stiles' heart putter and calm in his chest.  

  


"You've kept our pack together, even with all of us scattered across the country," he's talking low, murmuring, even though the other bed in the room is empty, vacated by Isaac."You send us money when we need it, you come when we call, even if it's the middle of the night and you have to drive four hours to Stanford, you - you buy us booze, and food, even if you're kind of useless for emotional support - "

  


"Shut up, Stiles," Derek mutters, and kisses him.  

  


Stiles' breath catches in his throat, and Derek's mouth is dry, tastes like stale booze and sleep, but Stiles pushes his lips open and sinks into it, sinks so Derek's weight is over him and his hair is mussed from his slow slide down the pillow, sinks into that deep-rooted feeling of _right_ that he knows is actually _home, pack._

  


* * *

  


"Let me tell you a story," Stiles says, to the pile of hungover werewolves in swimsuits currently slumped over the bench seats at the front of the boat, "about how everyone but Derek is an ass."

  


He's behind the wheel, behind some extra-strength sunglasses and two more advil than is advised by the bottle, standing between Derek's legs, because he commandeered the captain's chair and Stiles didn't really see any reason to fight him about it.

  


"Hey," says Isaac, too loud, so that Lydia shushes him with a weak slap to the back of the head."Why am I an ass? I let you have my bed."

  


"True," says Stiles, "but you took all of the blankets with you."

  


"It's eighty-four degrees out," Derek says softly from behind him, "Who the hell needs blankets?"

  


"Humans," Stiles says, "who do not generate an extra twenty degrees of body heat on a regular basis."

  


Isaac sticks his head out from underneath Scott, squinting in the sun reflected off the water, "I think I did you guys a favor, actually."

  


They're approaching the end of the no-wake zone, which means he doesn't have long to get his point across before people start whining at him to get a move on."I was rejected from _every_ bed - "

  


Derek snakes his arm around Stiles' waist and drags him back against his chest, tucking his chin over Stiles' shoulder."Not every bed," he's almost purring, which is ridiculous, it's sunny and he's hungover, he should be moaning and groaning and kicking his feet - or at least, the Derek equivalent.

  


Erica groans appropriately and flings a towel at them, "Get a _room_ , geez."

  


Stiles pulls the towel off his head."No, I'm not done berating you," he says, then starts dramatically, "Captain's log, March twenty-third two-thousand and sixteen: an expedition in sleeping arrangements - "

  


"Shut _up,_ Stiles - "

  


**Author's Note:**

> i am so sorry i wrote this in the middle of the night please forgive


End file.
